


If Love Could Have Saved Us

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: Neither of them expected the Letter.Neither of them knows what to do now.Both of them will be dead before the day is over.A 'They Both Die at the End' AU
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49
Collections: HP UnHappily Ever After Fest 2019





	If Love Could Have Saved Us

**Author's Note:**

> If love could have saved us we would have lived for ever. - atticus 
> 
> Thank you at the wonderful mods for organising such an amazing fest!  
Thank you Jay, for listening to my rumbles and ideas and dealing with my countless doubts.  
Thank you Cassiara, for being my Harry whisperer and helping me figure out what's going on in that head of his.   
And finally thank you Lynn, for your last-minute-rescue and the wonderful feedback.

Harry has been wandering around aimlessly since he got the Letter. The Letter telling him he is going to die today. 

He doesn’t know how they work, just that they are always right and you are doomed to die within the next 24 hours after receiving them. Harry saw plenty of them during the war, grew used to people being present at their own funeral. 

Somehow he never realised that he, too, would one day receive a Letter. 

Not that Harry thought he wouldn’t die. If anything, he didn't think he would live this long. Harry never thought he would survive the war, never expected to walk away after his final battle against Voldemort. Dumbledore’s eagerness to sacrifice him, while hard to swallow, only confirmed what Harry had deep down— if he was entirely honest— started to realise: Harry only ever was to _win_ the war, not _survive_ it. 

But then he did. Harry survived and he was celebrated and utterly lost. He didn’t know what to do with himself, plagued by the shadows of the war and no purpose to serve. 

So he did the only thing he could do and adjusted. Harry put on a smile and reassured his friends, told Ginny to pursue her dreams and not let him tie her down. He pretended to be more than a soldier missing the war. 

Over time, he started to believe it himself. He took to visiting Teddy, ate dinners with the Weasley’s and begun to smile without having to remind himself, without it being a facade. 

The Letter ruined everything. 

Harry honestly thought he might have been happy, in time. 

He didn’t read the whole thing, just skimmed enough of it to confirm his fears before he fled the house. As if that would change anything. Harry is going to die today, and there is nothing he can do about it. 

But he couldn't stay in that house, gloomy and full of dreadful memories and the future he would never have now. He also couldn't risk Ron and Hermione finding him there. They would be gutted, would try to comfort him, would hang all over him and suffocate him with their concern. They mean well, of course, but Harry can’t face that, can’t bear to force this terrible truth onto them; can’t burden them with the knowledge of his imminent death. 

Harry left, wandering the streets and watching the Muggles around him, going about their day as usual, snapping into their mobile phones and ignoring everyone around them. Harry envies them their ignorance, wishes he didn’t know anything about his death and could waste his day like they do. Instead he feels pressured to do something _great_, something _good_, to use every last second he has left. 

But there is nothing left for him to do. Nothing he _can _do after his purpose is fulfilled. He only just started to find his life outside the prophecy and learn who he could be, not enough to form a meaningful last day from. Besides, it hardly matters now that he won’t have the time to find out. He has been given a time limit. Apparently he wasn’t meant to become someone of his own after all, only ever meant to end the war and save everyone. 

And Harry didn’t even manage that. Countless people died because he couldn’t save them, because he took too long, because he was too weak. He doesn’t feel like he saved anyone, really. 

This could be his chance! He could save at least _one_ person, actually and tangible _save_ them! He could change his legacy, leave behind not only shrines for those he didn’t save but a life that is better for his presence in it. The thought is a spark in the darkness, lighting a fire to get him through this last mission. 

Harry doesn’t know how to do this, where to even start. All he knows for sure is that he has one day. One day to be the Saviour he was meant to be, one day before it’s too late and he dies without doing right by the people who believed in him and died for him. 

* * *

Draco has heard the stories, grew up with them and learnt to accept them as an integral part of their society. He heard of grooms receiving the Letter on their wedding day, heard of Letters for children not even born yet, heard of accidents that couldn’t be prevented no matter how hard they tried. 

Draco grew up hearing the tragedies, but he never expected it would be _him_. 

It’s a strange thing, death. Of course he knew it was coming, that he would receive the letter too, one day. That it’s inevitable. And yet here he sits, staring and unable to grasp what lays right in front of him. The seal is unbroken, the writing neat and tidy, the message clear without the need to open it — Draco is going to die today. 

He doesn’t know what to do with this news, if they are news at all. It’s too big, too much, surreal. Draco is going to die today. 

What a cruel message. 

There is a certain pressure to make this day _special_, to make it _count_, to live life to its fullest. But then, Draco has been as-good-as-dead since after the war, since watching Dementors suck the souls out of his parents, since being banned from his home and cut off of his funds. It’s not like anyone is going to care that Draco won’t be here tomorrow, no friends to miss him, no co-workers to worry. Draco could slip on the bathroom floor and crush his head against the sink and no one would even know. He could be peacefully bleeding out on the bathroom floor right now and the only one to care would be the poor sod left to deal with the mess. 

The thought doesn’t scare him half as much as it should. 

Draco _should_ be scared, should be bitter and raging and demand more time, should curse the Norns and search for ways to cheat death. 

He doesn’t feel the compulsion to do any of these things. There is a numbness filling him, an acceptance grown out of indifference, leaving no space for anything else. Not even regret. And there are many things that Draco could regret, the fact that he doesn’t care for one, that he will die alone, unmourned and unnoticed, that he never grew into the person he hoped he could be. 

He hoped he would do better in his life, would become a decent person at last, would rise above the pathetic excuse of an ex Death Eater he is right now, would atone for his behaviour and change. He didn’t though, and now it’s too late. 

It doesn’t matter anymore; Draco is a dead man walking. There is no way he will achieve any of this, will _do _any of the things he was too scared to do before. He is dying, and there is nothing that could change that. 

All that is left to do is choose the _how_. 

* * *

Malfoy’s wrist is frail in his hand, his eyes wide where they meet his. Harry didn’t plan on stopping him, barely even realised this is _Malfoy _he casually passed on the street, but his hand shot out to hold him before his mind caught up. And now he is staring at his not-quite-anymore-nemesis, standing completely in the way and feeling more settled than he did all morning, since receiving the Letter. 

“Potter, would you be so kind as to let go of my arm.” Harry reflexively holds Malfoy tighter, pulls him closer. He doesn’t want to let Malfoy go. He didn’t plan on meeting Malfoy, didn’t think about him at all, but now that he is here Harry wants to keep it that way. 

It makes sense, Malfoy was always around, always there - why shouldn’t Harry save Malfoy. The more he considers it, who _else _would he save? 

And Malfoy looks like he needs saving. He is pale, paler than he used to be and almost deathly, with deep shadows under his eyes. He looks like Harry feels, tired and worn out, shaking on his feet. But this, _helping him_, that Harry can lean on. He can keep it together for one more day, for Malfoy. 

“Do you promise not to run away?” It was meant to be a joke, something to replace the haunted look on Malfoy’s face with a smile, but Malfoy cringes, as if that was exactly what he had planned. Harry can’t allow that though, the thought of watching Malfoy disappear in the crowd looming over them and making him nauseous. It’s ridiculous, how quickly Harry latched on to _Malfoy_ to hold him up, but it’s too late to change now. 

“I just want to talk, drink some coffee maybe.” Harry gives Malfoy his best kicked-puppy look, the one no one can say no to. 

For a moment it doesn’t look like it would work, like he only confused Malfoy and he will run away faster now, but then Malfoy nods. It’s almost imperceptible and extremely reluctant, but Harry feels himself lighting up all the same. 

That is, until he realises that he has no idea where to go from here. He can hardly _tell _Malfoy that Harry is here to save his soul, that he might die in his arms but would really appreciate he doesn’t look too smug when that happens. He also can’t tell him that he did horrible things and surely he must know that he needs to do better? 

Malfoy, either oblivious or unsympathetic towards his crisis, just keeps looking at him, one eyebrow raised in what could be scorn just as easily as amusement. Harry wishes he knew, wishes he knew Malfoy well enough to understand what he is thinking, how he _works_. Not that it matters now, it’s too late to learn any of that. 

“What, changed your mind Potter?” It’s a challenge, clearly, and _those_ Harry can deal with. Challenging Malfoy is second nature to him, comes as easy as breathing, and not backing down when Malfoy challenges _him_ is part of that. 

“Of course not, come on then.” He drags Malfoy away, before either of them can change their mind. 

* * *

Draco doesn’t quite know how he found himself here, sitting on a bench and watching children play, the silence between him and Potter not tense for once but oddly companionable. The tea is unsurprisingly terrible, he really should have just ordered the same as Potter, but at least it’s warm and gives him something to do, an excuse not to talk. Because talking would ruin whatever _this_ is for sure. 

He thought Potter would accuse him of something, interrogate him maybe, but so far he only smiled at him and started a few attempts at small talk that he thankfully quickly aborted. 

Draco hadn’t expected much when he stepped out of the house, mainly just wanted to avoid dying alone really, but even if he had had expectations, Potter wouldn’t have featured in them. It does make sense though;_ of course_ Potter would be there to watch him die. Potter has watched every low point of his life, watched him fail to protect his family, watched him cry like a girl in the bathroom, watched him nearly have a breakdown at the trials. Why shouldn’t he see his death, too?

Not that Potter is aware of what he is about to witness, idly swirling his coffee as if he could sit on this bench all day and do nothing else. And who knows, maybe he could, _he_ isn’t dying after all, _he_ has a whole lifetime ahead of him to contemplate coffee like it holds all the answers. 

Draco should probably tell him, should warn him, make sure that he _doesn’t_ spend the rest of his life wasting it and realises how little time he has. Isn’t that what the Letters were designed for, to make the last day count? How could Draco make it count more than by saving the Saviour? 

But he is selfish, always has been, and he doesn’t want Potter to know. If he knew, he would look at Draco different, would maybe pretend to care, maybe _actually _care and try to save Draco. And there is no saving him, no need to make poor Potter fret. 

If Potter doesn’t know, this could be a normal day, a peek of the life he could have had. Draco _wants _that, too much to do the considerate thing and warn Potter. He will get over it. 

Before Draco can have that, however, his last day of pretence and companionship with Potter before his grand departure, there are some things he needs to say. 

“Listen Potter—” Whatever Draco was about to say, he freezes up when Potter’s head snaps up and he fixes those incredible green eyes on him. Draco was never good with emotions and being stared at certainly isn’t helping. Perhaps he shouldn’t say anything after all, Potter seems content pretending their ugly past didn’t happen, so why can’t Draco let it go? 

Because Draco either frees himself or let’s it fester inside him and poison him until the end, that’s why. 

“I’m not good at this, it goes against everything I was taught, you see.” 

Apparently he takes too long to gather himself, because Potter makes an encouraging noise and aborts what was most likely meant to become a nudge for him to go on. Alright then. Draco takes a deep breath. “I apologise, for every horrible thing I ever did to you and your friends.” 

Potter doesn’t say anything, which doesn’t seem right. Not that Draco really knew what to expect from him either, instant forgiveness or cruel taunting probably, but the silence is rather unsettling. 

Did he do it wrong? Can you even apologise in a wrong way if you mean it? Surely not. 

_Acceptance_ though, that’s a different matter entirely. Potter doesn’t have to accept his apology, doesn’t have to forgive him. And while Draco is doing this for himself and not because he wants Potter to pat his head and tell him he did well, having Potter believe him capable of being a decent person for once in his life would be extremely gratifying. 

“I had some time to think lately, too much probably, and I came to the realisation that not only am I a coward, I was also a nasty bully. Not only to you, of course, but you definitely bore the brunt of it. But compared to what I did after — I still have nightmares of that time, you know. I can still hear them scream. And I tried to tell myself that I was doing it to save my family, that if I didn’t do what he ordered _they_ would be the ones paying for it. But that doesn’t make it better, does it? That doesn’t bring back any of the innocent people who were murdered in our house, doesn’t heal those who were tortured, doesn’t undo _any_ of the gruesome things. It doesn’t even serve to delude myself anymore. 

“But there is nothing I can do about that, nothing besides apologising and promising to do better, or try at least.” It’s scary to say those things out loud, give life to the thoughts that plagued him, putting them out there for Potter to judge. No matter how much Draco told himself that this isn’t about Potter but for his own peace of mind, the continued silence makes him anxious. 

“We all have things we wish we did different, Malfoy.” Draco finds that hard to believe, what would Potter know about regret? But there is something heavy in his voice, something raw, that prompts Draco to chance a glance at him. He looks how Draco feels, haunted and tired and lost, but only for a moment before he forces a brittle smile on his face to mask the honesty Draco wasn’t prepared for. Maybe Potter knows a thing or two about regret after all. 

“If you really do want to make amends, I can help with that.” That is more like what Draco expected, the golden hero reforming the Death Eater. But golden heroes don’t look that broken, don’t have to fake their smiles. 

They also don’t look this unsure when they extend their hands. 

Some petty part of Draco demands he doesn’t take it, rejects Potter like he rejected him, leave him to sit on this bench and make him feel what Draco felt that day. But really, what would that gain him? It would only prove that he hasn’t changed at all and leave him where he was before Potter caught him, stumbling around and wandering aimlessly. But Potter offers an out, a second chance. Draco would be stupid not to accept. 

* * *

Harry didn’t actually think Malfoy would agree, for a second there he thought Malfoy would laugh in his face and leave. He doesn’t know what he would have done then. He has latched on to the idea of being around Malfoy and helping him worryingly quickly. 

But Malfoy stayed, shaking his hand with a certain reluctance but shaking it nonetheless. It’s nice, significant in ways Harry didn’t think it would be. He remembers their last handshake, or what it would have become had he taken Malfoy’s hand that day. He wonders where he would be right now had he accepted Malfoy’s offer, where they both would be. 

“Alright then, Potter.” Harry didn’t think Malfoy could sound this fond, could say his name not in anger or to taunt. He likes it, this new inflection on something familiar. “How does one go about redeeming oneself?” 

Malfoy is almost playful, as if it were nothing but a grand game. And while Harry very much enjoys seeing him smirk again (who would have thought Harry could grow to like that expression?) he still vividly remembers the dark shadow on his face, the pain in his voice. Malfoy hides it well, but he is as broken from the war as Harry is. If only Harry knew how to fix him, how to heal him. 

“I guess you had the right idea: you apologise and do better.” Malfoy’s face falls at that, the spark he held just a moment ago down to a dim simmer. Harry hates to see it, to be the cause of it when he just discovered a brighter side to him, but there is no time to be lost. He can’t allow himself to forget that this is about _saving_ Malfoy, just because his eyes glitter in the sun. 

“That easy, is it? As if I could ever truly make up for what I did, as if there is _anything_ I could do that would make it even remotely acceptable. I don’t deserve forgiveness, don’t you see that?” With a stab Harry realises that Malfoy _believes_ that, that he seriously doesn’t think he can redeem himself, can become better. 

The thought feels _wrong_. 

Harry can’t place it, can’t explain it either, but that can’t be right. Can’t be right, because Malfoy might not be perfect but who is? He did terrible things, but didn’t they all? Malfoy deserves a second chance, a life doing what he wants and no what he deems necessary to save his family. The idea that Malfoy should have to spend the rest of his life paying for what he was forced to do in his youth — Harry doesn’t like it, at all. 

What might just be worse than this bleak future is the utter conviction with which he said it, how certain Malfoy is of his own doom and how low he thinks of himself. Harry won’t accept it. If Malfoy himself doesn’t believe in his capability of change, how is anyone else supposed to? He needs to show him that he is more than his wrong-doings, that he can learn from them. That there is a person worth fighting for in him. 

“I have something important to say and I need you to _listen_ and to _understand_ it. Can you do that for me?” Harry is well aware he sounds patronising, he doesn’t need Malfoy’s raised eyebrow or the dismissive hand wave to tell him that, but this is too important. He can’t risk Malfoy not listening to him or interrupting him. “You are not a bad person, Malfoy. I know what you did, believe me I know, and you are not. You did the best you could under circumstances that weren’t your fault. That’s all anyone can ask, all anyone can do. I know it’s all _I_ did. 

“But the circumstances have changed and if you want to, _truly want to_, you can too. It doesn’t matter what others say, this shouldn’t be about them. This is only about you and the kind of person you want to be. It’s never too late to change.” It sounds inadequate, hallow phrases people say when they don’t know what else to say but hardly ever mean. It’s not good enough. 

“Stop worrying about it, it’s fine. No one’s fault but my own. Enough of that, how has life been treating you, already set a date for the wedding?” It’s obvious Malfoy wants to change the subject; he didn’t even try to be subtle about it! If the situation were any different Harry would let him, would give him a day or two to think about what he said, to let it sink in. But the situation isn’t different, and Harry doesn’t have a day or two. 

“Don’t try to distract me, we are going to talk about this. Because it’s _not_ fine, you can’t just go on like this, filled with regret and isolated from everyone else because you are too comfortable and cowardly to apologise and start over!” That is not how Harry wanted to handle the situation, too forceful, too angry. He was supposed to show Malfoy there are other ways, not shove him into something and make him glare. 

“Fine, I’m scared! Is that what you wanted to hear? That I don’t have the guts to own up to my actions? That I don’t want to see their faces and their hatred, their disgust? That I don’t know what I would do if even just one person told me that no, there is nothing I can do to redeem myself?” Harry’s irritation is like evaporated as he watches Malfoy gesturing widely, looking defiant but his eyes filled with tears he doesn’t want Harry to see and words more honest and vulnerable than he could have meant to. 

“Oh Malfoy, come here.” Malfoy struggles only for a moment when Harry pulls him into a hug, allows him to hide his tears and soothes the shudders going through him. Malfoy clings to him, grips his shirt and lets himself be petted. “You don’t have to be scared; we’ve all done enough of that. And you don’t have to do this alone; I’ll be there for you, alright?” 

He can feel Malfoy nod, a muffled sound against his neck, and for now it’s enough. 

* * *

The letters were Potter’s idea. He said if Draco writes his apologies he doesn’t have to see their faces when they receive them and he can prepare himself for the answers better. Draco chose not to tell him that the answers hardly matter since Draco more than likely will be dead before they arrive. But even knowing that it’s inconsequential in the end doesn’t make writing them any easier. 

Draco finds the words pouring out of him, faster than he can write them down and not as eloquent as he would have liked. Potter said that’s alright though, that it shows sincerity and everyone will understand. And since the whole thing was his idea anyway, Draco decided to trust his judgement. If he is honest, the way that Potter smiles at him and squeezes his hand in encouragement, how he sits close enough for Draco to feel his warmth against his side might have something to do with it too. 

It feels good, writing everything down, relieving, like putting the thoughts on paper means he doesn’t have to carry them in his mind anymore. Draco writes letter after letter, some longer and some shorter but all of them painfully honest. 

It’s somewhat embarrassing, that all it took was Potter calling him a coward and holding his hand for Draco to finally get those words out. He should have been able to do that himself. He knows exactly what his father would say if he could see him now, can see the sneer and the haughty expression, can feel the disdain. But Potter feels much more real, is far closer to him than his father’s echo. 

Potter is far more interesting, too. There is his help for one, the desperate ferociousness with which he tried to convince Draco not to stop yet. Of course, Potter has always had a thing for saving people but this is a new level of intensity Draco hasn’t seen before. He likes to think that is because he is helping _Draco _this time, that he is special, but that is highly unlikely. Potter doesn’t discriminate in his enthusiasm. 

Then there is his refusal to talk about his own life, evading questions about his friends and family. He probably thinks he is subtle about it, but he is really not. He becomes flustered and trips over his words, fumbling for an excuse. It’s endearing and Draco might have asked more questions than he usually would. It’s also worrisome though, because if Potter won’t talk about it there must be something wrong. And if one person deserves an happily after, it’s Potter. 

Draco can picture all too well what happened after the war. Granger and Weasley finally admitted their undying love and have since been completely lost in each other, the Girl-Weasley left him to go where ever the winds carry her because she has far too much spirit to stay here and the remaining Weasleys turned towards each other to mourn the loss of their son and brother.

And Potter, self-sacrificing idiot that he is let them go. He probably put on a brave face and smile and assured everyone he was _fine_ because he didn’t want to burden them. Because Potter is terrible at taking care of himself. 

Draco has to save him from himself, because Potter, somewhere along saving the world, forgot about that. 

Draco has no illusions about how much he will be able to help — he has this day and maybe not even that much. He won’t be there to see Potter heal and become happy, but at least he will have the satisfaction of dying knowing that he helped him, that he didn’t only do horrible things. And Potter is helping him, isn’t he? It would be bad etiquette not to return the favour. 

“And that’s the last letter, which means you now know every deeply personal and shameful thing I did. I feel like you owe me some secrets of your own to restore the extremely fragile equilibrium we built.” Draco almost fears to be brushed off again, that he was wrong and appealing to Potter’s slightly askew sense of fairness wouldn’t work. But he hesitates, considers Draco and the shockingly high pile of letters. 

“There really is nothing secret about me, what do you want to know?” Draco doesn’t believe the false levity for a second, but he will use the chance nonetheless. 

“Where is your Weasel?” Potter frowns at him, as if the glaring lack of his presence shouldn’t prompt questions. 

“Ginny? She’s —” Draco interrupts him with an impatient gesture; he doesn’t care about Potter’s love life. “No not her, Ronald! Wasn’t he supposed to take care of you? Too busy snogging Granger, is he?” 

That was the right thing to say, because now Potter is irritated, defensive, more liable to spit out sincere things. A completely irrelevant side-effect, Potter has always looked magnificent in anger, his whole stances radiating righteous fury and his eyes sparking. And apparently Draco is still far too fond of needling him, of the picture he makes and Potter’s entire focus on him. Draco has had Potter’s attention for most of the morning, but there is something thrillingly different about it now. 

“He is not my keeper, you know? I can take care of myself just fine. What about you, where are _your_ friends?” Potter’s eyes fall on the letters, a nasty smirk appearing on his face. “Oh right, I forgot.” 

This is the downside to an angry Potter, he knows exactly what to say to hurt, to make him feel utterly worthless again. He didn’t even have to say it, one glance was enough for Draco to connect the words Potter didn’t say. How Draco doesn’t have friends, how he doesn’t deserve them, how he drove everyone away when they realised how despicable he is. They hurt, despite Draco having thought worse of himself. 

And Draco does what he does best: he lashes out to distract from his own pain, stands up and paces through the room to escape it. “At least my friends didn’t drop me the moment they didn’t need me anymore!”

He regrets the words as soon as he spoke them, even before he sees Potter’s expression shutter, sees him jerk away as if slapped. This is the last thing Draco wanted when he provoked him. He didn’t mean to _hurt_ him, to rub salt in the wound and make matters worse. All he wanted was to make the stubborn fool open up about his pain so that he could _help_ him. 

“I just wanted to help you, so if we could get back to that—” And wasn’t that what _Draco_ wanted to say? Potter has forced a smile on his face that does absolutely nothing to hide the hurt, more a grimace than a reassurance. But even more important is that Potter still wants to help him, still wants to turn his miserable life into something worth living, give him a future Draco doesn’t have anymore. 

Draco can’t waste his last day letting Potter labour for something that won’t matter in the morning. And there is only one way to make Potter see how futile his efforts are, only one way to get him to agree to stop. 

“It doesn’t matter Potter, I won’t survive this day.” It feels strange to say out loud, like confirmation of what before was nothing more than a possibility. Draco stands up straighter, lifts his head and looks Potter in the eyes. He won’t have the strength to say this twice, he better make this count. “You can’t save me, it’s far too late for that. I appreciate what you did, but there is nothing more even you could do. I’m not worth your time, go save someone else.” 

Draco wasn’t sure how Potter would take the news, if he would scream and rage or simply leave, if he would call it good riddance and settle down to watch (admittedly less and less a possibility the more time they spent together) but it never crossed his mind that Potter would do nothing but stare at him, expression unreadable. 

* * *

Harry refuses to believe him. Malfoy can’t possibly be dying. 

He can’t _not _have a future, not get a possibility to redeem himself and get a second chance for a life that makes him happy. 

Harry has somehow accepted his own death, has pressed it down under a purpose and tucked it away to ignore — but _Malfoy_, that doesn’t seem fair. 

Malfoy can’t possibly be dying. He must be joking. A bad, terrible joke. 

But he doesn’t look like he is joking at all, face wary as he watches Harry, shoulders tense. He is waiting for Harry to react. This isn’t a joke. Draco Malfoy is dying, before Harry has a chance to save him, to help him. 

“Look, it’s not a big deal. I’ll leave and you can pretend I was never here.” Hearing the words, seeing Malfoy back away, finally pushes Harry out of his frantic thoughts and into action, grabbing Malfoy’s wrist again as if he could keep him here if only he holds on fast enough. It’s ridiculous, but Malfoy stops leaving and Harry feels more grounded. Harry doesn’t let him go. 

“No don’t go, stay.” Malfoy smiles at him, a small smile but definitely there and Harry is ready to maybe let him go again, when he realises what Malfoy said. “This _is_ a big deal! You are _dying_!”

“_This_ is why I didn’t tell you. You can’t understand until you get the Letter, so don’t presume to tell me how to feel about it.” Harry has to admit that Malfoy is right there, he didn’t tell anyone either, after all. But Harry understands, he got the same Letter. 

“What if I _do_ understand, would you let me protest then?” Malfoy stares at him, eyes wide and flashing with the same emotions Harry went through. Shock, comprehension, denial — Harry stops him before he can see what comes next. They both shouldn’t think too much about this. 

“Who is making a big deal out of it now?” It was supposed to be teasing, fun, but it falls flat with Malfoy’s refusal to do so much as acknowledge Harry. Until he suddenly does react, glaring at Harry as if he said something incredibly stupid. He didn’t think he would ever be this happy to have Malfoy glaring at him. 

“Of course it matters when it’s _you_! You weren’t supposed to die! You saved this entire world, for Merlin’s sake, and now you don’t get to live in it?” What is Harry supposed to say to that? He didn’t think Malfoy would care, not this much at least. He is angrier than Harry was when he got the news! He also doesn’t like what Malfoy implied yet again, that _he_ himself isn’t worth it, that it isn’t a terrible thing if _he_ dies. Harry knows even less what to say to _that_. 

Thankfully he doesn’t have to say anything, because Malfoy does it for him, slumping against the wall and looking defeated. “It’s not fair, you weren’t supposed to die.”

He looks scarily close to that day of the trial, all pride long gone and despair practically clinging to him. Harry hates it even more now. 

He can’t possibly stay away again, can’t let him suffer alone and pretend to be unaffected. 

It’s awkward at first, leaning next to Malfoy against the wall, careful not to touch. They are both tense, neither of them sure what Harry is doing. He just wanted to be closer, offer comfort. This is nothing like he pictured, not as easy as he hoped. It’s ridiculous, standing here, scared to reach out to Malfoy when he is already halfway there. What poor excuse of a Gryffindor is scared to comfort a suffering friend?

Malfoy apparently agrees, because he is huffing and then he is chuckling, moving his hand away from his side in a tentative offer. Harry gladly takes it, pulling Malfoy closer with it and making him stumble, catching him against his side with an arm around his waist. 

It’s still not what he imagined, Malfoy warm and heavy leaning on him, hair tickling under his nose. But Malfoy is here, he is real and for a moment Harry can pretend that they aren’t dying, that he can have this again, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. 

* * *

Disneyland is a huge disappointment. Potter talked of it with childish glee, eyes lighting up and the whole mood shifted. If Draco knew that _this_ is Potter’s idea of a good time, he would have suggested something of his own. But Potter looked like he needed a distraction, something easy and light and _fun_ and Draco himself was more than ready to change the subject. But this might be worse. 

Maybe Draco is missing some information here, can’t fully appreciate the ridiculous costumes people are running around in because he didn’t grow up loving them, doesn’t understand the references and doesn’t appreciate the fantasy world coming to life in front of his eyes the same way Muggles do. _They_ sure seem happy enough, smiling and laughing and being dragged around by little children, standing completely in the way and being insufferable loud. 

Draco wants to leave. He wants somewhere quieter, less crowded and overrun, something he doesn’t need to beg explanation for and where he doesn’t feel so terrible out of place. 

But he asked, wanted to know what Potter always wanted to do, tried to make this last day count. He can’t back out now, tell Potter his dreams are stupid and not worth living. Draco can also not leave him alone, not only out of a purely selfish desire for company but because he thinks Potter might break if he is left to his own devices. Draco didn’t ever think Potter could look as fragile as he did, and he never wants to see it again. 

So Disneyland it is, screaming masses and crying children included. Draco will just have to grit his teeth and get through it. This is for Potter, to make him happy. 

Not that he seems much more comfortable than Draco, face scrunched up in a scowl and aimlessly wandering around. He has become silent, too, after his initial euphoria over seeing the costumes and colours. 

It almost seems like he doesn’t want to be here either. But that is ridiculous, isn’t it? This is Potter’s _dream_, the first thing on his mind when Draco said fun. What kind of cruel world do they live in where dreams come true in form of nightmares? 

An extraordinary stupid question to ask. They both experienced first-hand how cruel life can be. Draco won’t spend any more of it in a giant theme park neither of them enjoys just to keep up pretence. 

“Potter.” Potter doesn’t react, stubbornly walking towards a duck wearing a shirt but no trousers and pulling Draco with him. Absolutely not, that is quite enough now. 

Draco tugs at his hand to get him to stop, refuses to take even one step more unless Potter can convince him he is actually having more fun than he thought possible. “Potter, I want to leave.” 

This time Potter hears him, finally stopping and looking back at him. He doesn’t look upset at all, not like someone who dislikes the prospect of getting away. Good, Draco would have hated to spend more time here equally as much as snatching Potter’s joy away. But Potter smiles at him like he waited for Draco to say something. “Let’s leave then. I’ll Apparate us.” 

Draco has no time to inform Potter that he doesn’t trust him to make a halfway decent choice anymore, before he is pulled into the blessedly quiet dark and Potter Apparates them. 

* * *

Malfoy looks around in distrust, nose wrinkled more adorable than it should be and still holding on to Harry’s hand, as if to whisk them away if the ice cream parlour doesn’t meet his expectations. Harry himself doesn’t have to look around, knows the small tables and pictures on the walls already. He used to come here with Ron and Hermione a lot, just after the war, to get out and away and drown their sorrows in chocolate sauce where no one would recognise them. He doesn’t quite know why they stopped but he misses it terribly. He hopes Malfoy likes it here, too. 

It’s a ridiculous worry, Malfoy let himself be dragged through Disneyland for an hour without a word of complain, so Harry would definitely have time to order some sugary monstrosity before Malfoy has enough. Though he has to admit that he is kind of relived Malfoy protested when he did, it was nothing like Harry dreamed of growing up. He didn’t think that something besides laughter and fun could exist in such a colourful place, but he either changed too much since then or their marketing is better than the actual thing because the visit felt like a pale imitation of what he had always imagined. 

Ice cream though, that is safe. Ice cream will never disappoint you. 

“Come on, you can sneer at everything from a seat while I get us something to eat.” Malfoy grumbles a little at being pushed around but he doesn’t actually object it, sitting down and casting a discreet cleaning charm on the table. Which is rude and unnecessary of course, and if Harry has to hide a smile at that it’s no one’s business but his own. 

And the old lady’s behind the counter apparently, not so much taking his order as glancing back and forth between Malfoy and him. The last thing he needs right now is a nasty comment that would drag down the mood again, would overshadow all the nice memories he has in this place. 

“That boy is half in love with you already, you know, smiling all fond when he thinks you aren’t looking. You better treat him right!” Instead of the glare Harry had half prepared already he finds himself nodding meekly, smiling at the thought of Malfoy dropping the scowling mask when he doesn’t think anyone would notice. He carefully doesn’t go anywhere near the love comment. _Love _feels too heavy a word to throw around like this, even if just in his own thoughts. And it isn’t important in the end, what Malfoy might or might not feel and how Harry would react to that. They are both here, both _happy _to be here. What else matters? 

“Here you go young man; I’ll leave you to it.” With a wink the woman disappears, leaving on the counter only _one_ giant ice cream with two spoons. This is _not_ what Harry ordered. Not even Ron and Hermione, who could be disgustingly sappy at times, ever ordered one of _those_. There is no way Malfoy will believe him when he tells him this wasn’t his choice, that this isn’t an incredibly incompetent attempt at flirting. Maybe Harry will be lucky though and Malfoy won’t be offended and just laugh at him. 

It really is a statement to how dire the situation is when the best possible outcome is Malfoy laughing at him. Although, Malfoy laughing probably isn’t a bad thing. Coming to think of it, Harry doesn’t remember that he ever heard his laugh. Fuelled by pure joy that is, he heard it plenty in derisive and mocking. But he has discovered new sides to Malfoy all day, time to hear his laugh. 

Determined to earn this little piece of Malfoy, Harry takes the ice cream and reveals it to Malfoy in a dramatic swirl. 

Malfoy gapes at him. Not what Harry was aiming for but oddly satisfying nonetheless. The expression has nothing of the quiet dignity Malfoy usually carries himself with, so completely different from anything else Harry has seen from him. Unimaginable that just this morning Harry thought he had seen all there is to Malfoy, when he never saw him in genuine joy or shocked surprise. Harry wishes he had a camera to take pictures of every new emotion he can coax from Malfoy. 

Unbidden the thought that he won’t have enough time to forget them, making taking pictures to remember them useless, creeps up on him. Harry shoves it down. He is resolved to make this day a happy one, no gloomy thoughts allowed. 

“Potter, please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” The words sound strangled, pressed out against the lingering shock. Harry grins at him and places the ice on the able, taking a seat. 

“I don’t know Malfoy, what do you think this is?” Malfoy scowls at him but quickly looks away when Harry’s grin doesn’t falter. Riling Malfoy up was always fun, better now that Harry is sure they won’t end up in a screaming match. 

“It looks like it belongs to Madam Puddifoot’s. Did I miss something here?” Malfoy smirks at him, evidently having decided to try and turn the tables. To his dismay Harry can feel it working. He had been aware of the implications of course, knew perfectly well what Malfoy would think of, what he _himself _thought of. But spelt out like this the idea makes him squirm. 

“Oh! This is, well _no_, but you see — the woman, this wasn’t me!” Malfoy interrupts him mercifully, chuckling at him. It’s not quite the laugh Harry wanted, but it’s more than enough to tell him that it will be beautiful when he finally hears it. 

“I was teasing, Potter.” Harry watches him take a spoon and meticulously gather some of every flavour, creating a rainbow of colours. Harry knew the ice cream is good here, he wouldn’t have returned this often or brought Malfoy here otherwise, but seeing his blissed out face at the first taste is like discovering it all over again. 

Harry doesn’t even think of eating anything himself, too wrapped up in fascination as Malfoy enjoys their ice cream, licking the spoon and making nearly indecent noises to convey his enjoyment. Harry has been watching Malfoy eat for years now, staring at him over the expanse of the Great Hall and knowing nothing of the noises. If he even made them, that is. It can’t be proper and Harry doesn’t think old Lucius would have allowed his son such indulgence. Which would mean that Malfoy feels comfortable enough with Harry not to constantly keep himself in check, to let go. Harry rather likes that. 

However comfortable Malfoy may feel with him and however happy Harry is at the thought, he doesn’t indeed to let him have all of the ice cream. 

* * *

Potter has ice cream on his nose. It looks utterly ridiculous and Draco is far too tempted to lean close and lick it off. He can already imagine the stunned look that would earn him, followed by that cocky smirk of his. Remembering how it got there in the first place, how Potter started to steal his ice cream away spoon by spoon, sneaking past Draco’s attempts to keep him out and gleefully eating every bit he managed to loot. 

Until he pulled back too fast, didn’t pay enough attention and gloating instead, spoon missing his mouth and landing on his nose. Served him right. But now Draco is the one who has to stare at it, who has to suffer the consequences. 

Potter has the audacity to grin at him, eyes sparking and teeth flashing, and Draco decides that that is enough. Leaning forward Draco cups his face, smirking at the startled look, and sweeps his thumb over his nose, sucking it into his mouth, holding Potter’s eyes for maximum effect. 

“Would you ever have thought that the two of us would be sitting together, eating ice cream?” Potter frowns at the sudden change of subject, but Draco is curious. He, personally, wouldn’t have expected to find himself here, fighting over ice cream and getting along astonishingly well. 

“I think it’s safe to say we both would have rather died than spend a whole day together.” Potter chuckles, abruptly stopping when he realises what he just said. And they had been doing so well resolutely ignoring the issue. Draco coughs awkwardly, trying to chase the silence away and scrambling for something else to talk about.

“So this place, do you come here often?” That should be safe enough, plenty of possible answers to stir this conversation back on track. Potter breaks out in a grateful smile and Draco mentally pats himself on the back for being the cause of it. 

“I came here a lot with Ron and Hermione! We would sit here for hours and order ice after ice, ignoring our duties and the things going on outside. We needed to find somewhere the reporters wouldn’t corner us. And well, the ice cream here is fantastic.” Apparently there is no safe topic today, because Potter’s smile has turned wistful. 

Which reminds Draco, he has been wondering were Granger and the Weasel are. Potter avoided his question and Draco thought it best not to press him, but maybe he should have. Maybe this is what Potter needs, someone who gently but relentlessly nudges him towards the hard questions. And it’s obvious that Potter is avoiding asking questions, but he can’t keep ignoring this. 

“Where are they? I keep wondering.” Potter’s face shatters. Not what he was hoping for but not unexpected either. “The truth this time, Potter.” 

“They are fine, completely fine.” Draco merely has to raise an eyebrow for Potter to sigh and go on. “They don’t know, about the Letter I mean. I thought it best to spare them the burden of knowing. There is nothing anyone can do and they suffered more than enough already, no need to force a truth on them they didn’t ask for.”

That is … incredibly stupid. It’s also so very _Potter _Draco should have seen this coming. Although he didn’t think Potter capable of keeping secrets from the two, and if they have to force it out of them. Draco supposes he sneaked out before they got the chance. 

“You don’t think they deserved to make this choice for themselves, could want to be there for you and spend this day with you?” Draco tries not to be condescending, not to do anything that would lead Potter to bottle things up again, but it’s difficult not to whack him over the head with the menu to knock some sense into him. 

Potter laughs, a brittle and humourless thing that makes Draco shudder. 

“Oh sure, they would have _said _that. Ron would try to comfort me and make me feel better while Hermione would pore over books to find a way around this thing. They mean well, they do, but they wouldn’t understand. They would have these expectations, the perfect ending for the perfect hero. But I’m not perfect, not a hero and this is the last thing I want.” 

Potter trails off, staring somewhere way past Draco for long enough that he contemplates nudging him, when he continues. 

“They will be fine without me, they always have been. They will grief and move on, free from the war and everything entailed with it, including me. They wouldn’t ever admit to it, of course, but they constantly have to worry about me, confront what happened again and again. They deserve better than that.” 

“_You _deserve better than that, too.” Draco doesn’t know how Potter could have missed this, how he could have understated himself this thoroughly. “Enough of this now! You are being selfish. You will be dead very soon Potter, and of course this is your choice, but your choice is stupid. They deserve to know, to say goodbye to you knowing it will be the last time and to part on good terms. And if you don’t want to be cuddled or have a cake, open your mouth and tell them. They are your _friends_, they stood with you through everything and always had your back. How do you think they will feel when they read about your death in the _Prophet _tomorrow?” 

Potter just stares at him, blinking and unresponsive. Draco sighs. “Look Potter, I think you are avoiding talking to them because you are avoiding acknowledging it. And as long as you are aware of this, I am perfectly content ordering another one of these delicious ice monstrosities and talk about Quidditch.”

Potter still hasn’t said a word, scowling at the table and hopefully thinking on what Draco said. That’s okay, Draco will give him as much time as he can to make a decision, he won’t rush him. 

* * *

Being without Malfoy feels odd. He has been a presence at his side for most of the day, encouraging him and nudging him onward, making him laugh and distracting him. But this is something Harry has to do alone. 

Malfoy was right in the end. Running away wouldn’t mean that Harry is going to survive the day, and Ron and Hermione deserve better than him sneaking out. They deserve to know, even though it will be painful for all of them. 

Sitting here now —still feeling where Ron has nearly crushed him with his hug when he came through the door, still hearing the noise Hermione made before she flung herself into his arms, when she saw him and realised he is not dead yet, that he is here, watching them cling to each other and trying hard not to reach out to him because he asked them for space— Harry realises how much he underestimated the pain. And how much he misses Malfoy, misses someone for himself to hold onto, someone who understands. 

But Malfoy isn’t here. He left to send his letters, an excuse to give him all the time he will need. 

“So while we were frantic with worry, thinking you were already dead in a ditch somewhere, you were eating _ice cream_ with _Malfoy_?!” Harry knows Hermione didn’t mean to accuse him of anything and make him feel worse, but that doesn’t change that this is exactly how it sounds to him. 

Thankfully he can always trust on Ron being there. “Not now ‘Mione, let’s not spend the time we have left fighting over what is done.” 

Harry doesn’t understand what Ron whispers in her ear, but it makes her look contrite and bite her lip in thought. They really are one unit, fine-tuned to each other and knowing just what to say and when to reel the other in. That is the one thing Harry was right in, they will have each other after he is gone, they will be fine. 

“You could have brought him, Malfoy, I mean.” He is meaning well, Harry can see that, but he also sees that Ron is glad he didn’t. Understandable, really, Ron doesn’t know Malfoy. That he would still have tolerated him only shows what good friends they are, reinforces how much better they deserve than Harry running. 

But Harry can’t stay, can’t spend his whole day watching them trying to hold it together and walking on eggshells. 

“I can’t stay for long.” Harry sees their faces fall, can almost hear their protest already, and he knows exactly that he would change his mind if he lets them talk for long enough. “No please, I need to say this.” 

“You are wonderful friends, better than I ever could have hoped for. And spending this day with you, it would just taunt me with what I will lose, what I have to leave behind. It hurts too much. I don’t want our last moment together to be painful or for you to remember _this_ instead of all the good times we had, the adventures and the fun. Today isn’t — it doesn’t matter, you know?” 

They do know, of course they do, but Harry can see that they are still hurt. He is doing this far too late. “I’m sorry for trying to hide this from you and avoiding you. I tried to spare you from getting hurt.” 

“Oh Harry!” Hermione breaks free from where Ron is holding her, throwing herself at him and clinging to him. It’s awkward, Harry wasn’t prepared and he has a mouth full of hair, but he wouldn’t change a thing. He clutches her tighter, buries his face in her hair and inhales her scent. It’s not fair that he will never be allowed to have this again, can’t be there to see her conquer the world and work to make her dreams come true, can’t be there for her. 

He can feel the careful resolve he built crumble, his intentions of not crying and making this even harder, shaking. Reluctantly he pulls back. He needs to leave. 

Hermione is furiously rubbing at her eyes, trying to get rid of the tears before Harry sees them. It doesn’t work. 

Tenderness welling up in him Harry takes her face in his hand to brush the tears away himself, tilting her face up to make her look at him. 

“I love you ‘Mione, you have no idea how much.” Pressing a kiss on her forehead Harry hopes she understands all the things he can’t say, how grateful he is, how lost he would have been without her, how much he wishes he could stay. 

Ron doesn’t look much better than Harry feels, valiantly fighting a losing battle. Harry doesn’t hesitate before pulling him into a hug, too. 

Hugging Ron is no less painful than hugging Hermione, not easier despite being the one to initiate it. He won’t see Ron’s life either, won’t see him decide on how he wants to life it, won’t see him prove everyone who ever doubted or belittled him wrong. And he still can’t say what he already couldn’t tell Hermione, though they both deserve to hear it. Harry can do nothing but hope they already know. 

“I love you too, Ron, so much.” Pulling away, Harry kisses his forehead before he turns to leave. If he doesn’t go now he won’t go at all. 

He chances one last look, seeing them holding each other again. “Let’s not say goodbye, let’s just — I’ll see you both later.” 

They will be fine, they have each other and they will be fine. 

* * *

Potter looks awful. He looks small where he stumbled out of Draco’s fireplace, arms around himself and tears on his face. Draco doesn’t hesitate before going to him, catching him in his arms and holding him up. He can do nothing but awkwardly stroke his back as Potter sobs against him, hoping he doesn’t do more harm than good. 

Draco is really the last person anyone would come to for comfort, and yet it’s more than obvious that Potter did exactly that. Draco was certain he would stay with his friends, it was after all a mere coincident that they run into each other and Potter doesn’t owe him anything. He thought that once someone pushed Potter back into his friends’ arms, he would stay there, cherishing every last moment. But instead he is here, clinging to Draco and ruining his shirt. 

Draco couldn’t be happier. He has missed the git while he was gone, impossibly alone and just waiting for death to come for him. 

Selfishly, he is glad Potter didn’t stay with his friends but returned to him. He might be dreadfully incompetent when it comes to comfort and empathy, but Potter feels right in his arms, like he belongs. And now that Potter is here, Draco is going to take care of him. 

There is this song his father used to sing to him when he was ill or couldn’t sleep. Draco doesn’t remember the words anymore, only the rise and fall of his father’s voice, the fond smile and the hand in his hair. It is the most comforting thing he can think of, and it will have to do. 

Potter tenses as he begins to hum but Draco goes on, the melody becoming clearer and stronger. Gently Draco brings one hand up into Potter’s hair, carding his fingers through the soft strands. He has always been fascinated with Potter’s mess of hair, wondering how it might feel when played with, if Potter would like that. It feels better than he could have imagined, Potter slowly starting to relax again. 

No, Draco really couldn’t be happier. 

* * *

Harry should have known that letting Malfoy decide what to do would be a mistake. But when he saw Malfoy’s delighted expression it was far too late already, Harry unable to say no to him. Since then an hour has passed, an hour of nothing but pompous rings and heavy necklaces, earrings covered in so many precious stones that they would surely tear the ear with their weight. Harry really should have known Malfoy would be the type to consider buying ugly jewellery a fun activity. 

Not that Malfoy has actually _looked_ at them, not really. Instead he drifted through the room, sliding his fingers over the showcases and telling Harry how he used to do this with his mother, spending countless hours on finding the perfect piece. 

“Seen anything you like yet, Potter?” Harry has, but he rather thinks Malfoy means the jewels. He also looks far too sad for such a corny line, too lost in treasured memories. 

“No, Malfoy, I still think they are pretentious abominations for people with more money than taste. Are you done admiring them yet?” As hoped Malfoy smirks at him, all traces of sadness gone and replaced with mischief. That’s better. Not to be selfish, but Harry cried enough for both of them today.

“They are _grandiose_, Potter. Though I have to agree,” Malfoy leans close with a conspiratorial smirk on his face, “they are quite atrocious.” 

Oh yes, _this_ is much better. Malfoy is almost close enough to touch, close enough to see the pale freckles on his face that Harry never noticed. He is beautiful, and Harry would very much like to kiss him. His lips look soft, pink and tempting and Harry doesn’t know how he went all day, all these years, without kissing him. 

Malfoy’s eyes drop down to his mouth, lingering, tongue flicking out over his lips. He has absolutely no idea how they didn’t do this sooner when they both so clearly want it. Harry has done enough waiting. 

“Look I'm not going to say this again—” There is someone shouting behind them, causing Malfoy to look away from him and over his shoulder. Which is absolutely unacceptable, of course. This is _their_ moment; Harry won't share it with some rude stranger. 

Taking the final step to close the gap between them, Harry presses against Malfoy, demanding all his attention back onto him, where it belongs. Malfoy's lips are even more divine than they looked, warm and soft and hungry against his. It's addictive, kissing him, pulling tiny noises from him and feeling him under his hands, anchored by Draco's hands in his hair, gripping and drawing Harry in further. 

“Fucking do as I say!” There is a shot ringing, ripping them apart and destroying their intimacy. 

Harry doesn’t think before he shoves Malfoy behind him, turning around to assess the situation, hand landing on the wand in his pocket. 

There are two other people in the room, the shop assistant looking freighted and a man, pointing a gun at her. 

This could become ugly quickly, the man shaking behind his gun and looking frantically between them and the poor woman he threatened. Harry can feel his heart beating in his chest, adrenaline cursing through his veins and mind racing with possibilities. He needs to get the man to let go of his gun, that is the first step to ensuring everyone’s safety, ensuring _Malfoy’s _safety. 

He wants to reassure Malfoy, wants to tell him that it will be fine and they will be out of here in no time at all, but one wrong step could cause the man to pull the trigger. And turning back to look at Malfoy would definitely be a wrong step. So Harry doesn’t look back, concentrates all his thoughts on steadying Malfoy and comforting him, and then focuses on the task before him.

Harry tries to project calm, holding his hands up in the universal sign for surrender, and takes careful steps closer. The man is backing away, gun now trained on him but quivering, unsteady. If Harry could get close enough — another shot is fired, Malfoy screams, and Harry can feel himself stagger back. 

Breathing is difficult. Harry absently notes that the bullet must have hit his chest. It hurts, spreading through his entire body. 

Someone is crying, maybe the woman, maybe Malfoy. The man is looking horrified, doesn’t take the gun down. Harry is fine, still standing. 

Harry takes another step closer, needs to get that gun out of his hand, needs to make sure no one is hurt. 

The man shoots again. Once. Twice. 

Harry is falling. Malfoy is screaming his name. 

Malfoy is holding him up, whispering frantically. “Don’t you dare die here, Potter, don’t you dare leave me! Please, Potter, you can’t—” 

Harry is dizzy. He can’t breathe. There is blood everywhere, warm and sticky. Malfoy presses a hand to his stomach, not stopping the bleeding. His clothes are soaked trough, clinging to him uncomfortably. 

Malfoy is still whispering, fumbling for something in his pocket, stroking his hair. It’s nice, Malfoy so close. Harry doesn’t want him to worry. 

Moving is difficult. He feels slow, heavy, but he manages. He smears blood on Malfoy’s face. There is so much Harry wants to say. 

His vision is going dark around the edges. 

Sirens ring in the distance, coming closer. Police. About time. 

They will be fine now. 

“Potter come on, look at me. Harry, please!” Malfoy looks beautiful, tears and blood on his face, hair a mess, leaning over Harry. He is crying, tears falling down on Harry’s face. Harry wants to wipe the tears away, make him smile again, finally hear him laugh. 

Malfoy is gone, screaming somewhere Harry can’t see. The ground is cold under him, hard. Blood is still pulsing, faster now, growing in a puddle under him. Harry is coughing, wet and warm. 

He can’t breathe, mouth full of blood. He is dizzy, falling and falling, seeing nothing. 

Malfoy is still screaming, calling his name, demanding to be let go. Harry wishes he could see him. 

A shot falls. 

Everything is quiet. 

Everything is dark. 

  



End file.
